Night swimming, sort of

Longtime readers of this space have heard my repeated complaints about the places where I've swum. Here in Cheyenne, it's the 86-degree YMCA pool, which trumps the Municipal Pool near Lions Park by virtue of runoff gutters. There are rust-colored stains on the pool's floor at the Y, to go with missing sections of tile on the side, indeterminate brownish gook on the deck and full gutters when I get in each afternoon. But there's lap swimming in the middle of the day, most days I get my own lane and the lifeguards know I'm serious and have cleared out a lane for me. I wouldn't compare being a regular at a pool with being a regular at a bar, but there are benefits to going to the same place all the time and seeing the same folks. Not necessarily a bad thing.

It's a little bit after 3 a.m. on Sunday, March 18. Since it was March 17 by the time I got off work a little more than 24 hours ago, I did my green day revelry then, marking the day with a car bomb and a couple pints of Guinness. Tonight, though, I headed over to the pool after work to swim for an hour and raise money for pool repairs. I didn't really raise any money because a Facebook plea went unacknowledged and I hate asking people for money for any reason, especially since I'm the only one I know who uses the Y. So I'll front the require C-note myself and rest easy in the knowledge that I did my part to keep my place of swimming somewhat repaired.

While I do usually get my own lane when I swim during the day, it was weird to have the whole pool to myself. There were two lifeguards there, and one of them, a younger girl, had a friend there to keep her company. I swam. I got in the water immediately after a stud high-schooler got out, and I settled into a rhythm. To keep an accurate count, I swam every 12th length backstroke. I looked out the skylights above and they were black from the night sky, quite a departure from the usual stark white that lights up the pool. The big windows near the whirlpool also were dark; swimming at night gives a different perspective.

I never counted strokes per length or anything, but the above paragraph illustrates how I kept my mind occupied — surveying my environment, popping my head up every so often to hear what the radio was playing, thinking about life, wondering what would happen if the power went out and the water temperature dropped five degrees.

Oh, and trying to figure out how far I'd swum. Tonight illustrated perfectly why I rarely do long steady swims in my workouts. I can't count laps to save my life, even though tonight I rolled over for a length of backstroke every 300 meters. In high school, I'd wait for the fast dudes in the lane next to me to finish their 500s, then I'd swim an extra lap. No need to count. Now, it's intervals, all day every day.

So I swam roughly 3900 meters, because I know I miscounted in a couple of spots. For a one-hour swim, I'm happy about it. I got to take myself to an odd place for this time of night; exercising at night is always a rare treat, and if I didn't live in such a dodgy part of town I'd do it ore often. I got in a groove and stayed there, even if I can't fully quantify it. I created my own waves next to the wall and moved with their rise and fall.

And I had 100,000 gallons of tepid, chlorinated, artificially and poorly sanitized water to myself. A dude could get used to that.

Sun's Out, Guns Out!

Those are my pasty legs, which saw the sun for the first time since one of my lackluster runs in Atlanta. At least I think I ran once sans coverings while "home" for Christmas. Anyway, I am not wearing white tights in this picture. Those are my bare sticks, bearing the brunt of abuse from the treadmill and trainer these days. My "guns," if you will.

The quote at the top is from Missoula-based pro triathlete Linsey Corbin, who adopts this philosophy in winters possibly more harsh than mine. She also rides her bike on 40-degree days with legs exposed, a length to which I will not go.

I was a little chilly when I started out today, into a relatively light southwest breeze, but I eventually warmed up. I shed my beanie around 15 minutes in, and then the gloves another 10 minutes later. It was almost like a real run, save the long-sleeved shirt. I took 48 minutes to complete a 5.8-mile, somewhat rectangular circuit on the south side of town near my crib.

http://www.mapmyrun.com/routes/view/61066138

In any event, we're back to the reality of winter tomorrow, a winter storm headed our way with snow and wind, wind and snow, driving me into the gym to save my lungs from a deep freeze.

And this is what you look like when you go swimming, put on a fleece beanie for the drive home, then get sweaty underneath a polypropylene beanie during the run. You end up with a dirty blond afro. Several strands near my forehead coalesced into the beginning of a righteous dreadlock that I scrubbed out immediately upon starting the shower. I'm a hippie at heart, but I would look silly with dreads, sillier with a single dread hanging in my face.

Music and training

Count me among the rare people who can train for hours without music. At least I can do it outside. To me it just doesn't seem safe to have the sound source in my ears with asshole motorists buzzing me, so I leave the iPod at home when I head out the door.

As for races, 90 percent of the time the rules forbid earphones or "personal sound systems" of any kind, which I can respect. Racing is about being in the moment and taking in all the stimuli around you — the crowd, other races, your breathing, your footfalls or pedal turns, the day in general. Having music with me creates an environment in and of itself, and each race presents a unique environment, one I like to experience on my own terms. The more different race environments, the better.

Indoor workouts are another story. Without something in my ear other than the rush of the water or my own labored breathing, I'd want to stab myself in the ears with a ball-point pen. So music it is.

Granted, with no sound source in the pool I have to make sure I've got a song in my head (and heart, I suppose). In which case, I'll play some tunes in my living room before driving to the pool, and then I'll listen to the radio on the drive. Now, I have been known to sit in the car for a few minutes in search of a song I can tolerate in my head for the hour I'm in there. Once I had some Lady Gaga bullshit infiltrating my workout (because it was the last thing I heard before getting out of the car, and you may cast whatever aspersions you want about my listening to a radio station that would play such music) and I wanted to beat my head into the wall. Lesson learned.

The treadmills at the Y here face a wall with three crappy TVs, but the TVs are not angled for visibility. That's fine, but it means I need some sort of outside stimulus. Enter the iPod. I can stare at the white wall (and the illustration of health benefits of elliptical/treadmill/stationary bike workouts, and the suggestion box, and the sink) for as long as I have to with some nice, loud, angry music in my ears. Same thing with the bike trainer. I set it up in front my old TV and VCR with Ironman videotapes to break the monotony to some degree. Of course, the next time I go into my "pain cave" will be the 15th time I've seen each of those races, but I'll take whatever I can get.

As I said, it's loud, angry music no matter what the visual stimulus — 90s alternative, hard rock from any era, hip-hop, a little punk. However, I admit to having some dance/electronica in there as well, because it moves and it drives, a nice break from people screaming about slights real and imagined.

So here's what I listened to during today's 1-hour, 6.99-mile, 870-calorie jaunt. I loaded all my workout playlists (Yes, I have those) into my iPod earlier this week and hit shuffle when I started the treadmill...

1. "That's How You Got Killed Before," Elvis Costello with the Metropole Jazz Orchestra

2. "You Can Do It," No Doubt

3. "Blind," Korn

4. "The Choice is Yours (Revisited)," Black Sheep

5. "Teenage Dirtbag," Wheatus

6. "Stop," Jimi Hendrix

7. "Hard Row," Black Keys

8. "Keep on Movin'," DJ David Coleman

9. "Under Your Skin," Luscious Jackson

10. "Jerk It Out," Caesars

11. "Midnight in Her Eyes," Black Keys (think I might have left this album in there)

12. "Corduroy," Pearl Jam

13. "Don't Stop," Brazilian Girls

14. "Can't Stop me Now," Dr. Theopolis

15. "Sugarcube," Yo La Tengo

OT: "Give me a thousand words on Black Sabbath."

I swore I'd never write again.

After my last experience as a professional writer, the process had me so turned off that I vowed I never wanted to make a living by the printed word. The thought of creating a single coherent sentence in the name of putting food on my table, clothes on my rumpled body, and a roof over my messy mop made me ill.

But then I saw a close-cropped brunette lead singer in a maroon/champagne/crimson velvet dress, black fishnets and calf-high Doc Martens screaming obscenities at slights real and imagined. I saw her bandmates rotate instruments between each 2-minute rant disguised as music.

Maybe that chick is my new muse. Maybe it was just time to let it all out. I don't know.

The pixie in the dress sang lead for DIkes of Holland. I don't know if she plays for the other team or if she's of Dutch lineage; doubtful, since those people are tall. Anyway, they rocked the Fulling Station in Bozeman for about 35 minutes. In one form or another punk rock is still alive, even if it involves a keyboard and spooky sounds emanating from same. The Dikes reminded me of punk rock by Queens of the Stone Age or White Stripes (I'm fully aware they're not punk groups per se, but if they did punk it would sound like the Dikes. There.) written for the soundtrack to Scooby Doo. Good, angry, fun stuff. Maybe if Adele were into punk she'd sound like this woman.

Anyway, they warmed up for the Sheepdogs, out of Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. From the lead guitarist's Montana-themed t-shirt with three-quarter sleeves to the bassist's yellow western-style shirt and low-rise jeans to the guitar duets, it was 1975 all over again. Every influence I heard in their music was from a band of that vintage — Allman Brothers Band (they had the Betts-Allman guitar interplay more than once), Lynyrd Skynyrd, Doobie Brothers, Neil Young and Crazy Horse (another plains-based Canuck outfit). Not that it's a bad thing, though; I grew up with that stuff and these guys were faithful to it.

Just that they were an odd choice to open up for Black Joe Lewis and the Honeybears, a James Brown-styled Motown-esque rock band from Austin (like the Dikes). They opened with an old blues standard, "You Don't Love Me," and away we went. The horns had their synchronized moves, the bass line thumped, the guitars crackled, Joe Lewis screamed, and the drums drove the bus close to the edge but never over. I picked up a playlist after the show and it made no mention of the 10-minutes of "Louie Louie" and "Surfin' Bird," punctuated with toke breaks. They jammed, they grooved, they popped.

And they made me write, those assholes.

Update?

I quit my job.

I botched an interview (see pvs).

I spent 3-and-a-half weeks drifting (aside from no travel it was the greatest 3-and-a-half weeks of my adult life).

I found and started work at one of my old haunts.

I put together a string of ... several days of working out.

I haven't been in the water since late August.

I bought a house.

I've been commuting 50 miles each way five days a week for five weeks.

I've switched my hours from 8-5 M-F to 3-12 F-Tu.

I had no idea how much it would take out of me mentally and physically.

I've treated a sore knee for a couple of months, and pondering a bike fit to remedy same.

That about covers it.

OT: "We have some concerns about your lack of stability..."

When I graduated journalism school, I was told I'd likely start my career in some podunk outpost on the edge of the universe. Some of my peers nonetheless set their sights on New York, Philadelphia, Boston, D.C., et al, while I looked westward toward these small towns, like Horace Greeley suggested many years before. I just knew I'd get the "call" after years of toil in these small towns where I perfected my craft and showed I had the writing ability to hang in the big cities.

Needless to say, that's not exactly how things turned out.

I first ended up in Winnemucca, Nevada, as the sports editor of The Humboldt Sun, the only daily newspaper in a county roughly the size of Vermont. I knew I wouldn't spend my career there because there's only so much you can do with one high school in the town and one out in the county, so when I applied for and was offered a job as a sports writer at the Denton Record-Chronicle, I took it.

I moved to Denton for the chance to cover some of the best high school sports in the country, and maybe do a sidebar on the University of North Texas before perhaps taking on one of those beats myself. When the sports editor position came open, I put in for it, but the managing editor had already hired someone, telling me he didn't think I was "management material," nor did he realize I had "any inkling" of being a manager. With the glass ceiling being paved over, I had no reason to stick around in Denton.

So then I moved to Lubbock, Texas, to cover minor-league hockey and high school sports at the Avalanche-Journal. Again, when one of the big-time college beats came open, I put in for it, the sports editor hemmed and hawed, and he brought in someone from a nearby paper to do the job. The things he said (or maybe the way he said them) made clear that he had no intention of considering me for any of the high-profile college beats, so I had no reason to stick around there for any length of time.

So then I moved to Cheyenne, Wyoming, to cover the University of Wyoming men's basketball team; I hired on for football, then switched spots with my sports editor. I had the title of assistant sports editor, and I got a little management experience, but the thrust of my job was covering a shitty college basketball team. I burned out on it after three seasons and one near-miss of a coaching search, and after I found religion in regard to work-life balance, I headed for the copy desk...

...in Bellingham, Washington. There, I wreaked the havoc of designing a sports section five nights a week, taking game calls, the usual stuff. I bristled under an overbearing editor, a my-way-or-the-highway kind of guy at a paper run like the Bush administration — this is what we're doing, and you're either with us or against us. That might work on a 20-something eager to please, but not a veteran journalist, so I moved on again.

This time, it was to Davenport, Iowa, where management had a lighter hand, and I learned a little more about designing pages. I hit a bit of a wall, though, and admittedly I muddled through my life there, taking on a second job to pay the bills, until a friend called with an offer to edit a university magazine. Onward.

I came to Laramie, Wyoming, to edit UWyo, the magazine for alumni and friends of the University of Wyoming. After two-and-a-half years, oversight of the magazine changed, my job description changed, I bristled some more, and I'm now looking to move on again.

Save for a few minor tweaks (aka "spin"), this is what I told some people at a job interview a few days ago in response to the title of this blog, a comment from one of the hiring editors. She saw my résumé a few weeks ago and never mentioned my job-hopping, until I sat in her office a little after 10 EDT on Thursday morning. Over lunch a couple hours later I walked her through it, then did the same for someone else that same day. This was the first time in my career anyone had a problem with my transience.

I would have loved to hire into the perfect situation straight out of college, a place where I got the necessary guidance and room to improve, plus management that really tried to help people succeed within those walls. It would be great to mark 15 years (or 10, or even 5) at one place and earn that extra week of vacation and the resulting raise, as well as a cake in the breakroom, a nameplate on the desk, or a place in the parking lot. It doesn't work that way, though. Journalism is transient — you have to go where you find work, as opposed to teaching or law or medicine, where you can find work wherever you go — and clearly I've embraced that transience. For better or for worse, I've bounced around.

So how many people drop into the ideal situation early in their careers and then stick around forever? How justified was this interviewer in extrapolating from her own heavily-tenured staff that everyone should have X number of jobs on their résumé after X years? And who would have guessed that my constant searching of that ideal situation, that sweet spot, would someday work against me?

Season opener(s)

When not slagging the World Triathlon Corporation, you can usually find me doing their races. But once I finish and regain my soul, I feel the need to race off the beaten path (figuratively anyway) to restore the necessary balance to my universe.

That's how the early part of my race season has gone. I raced the California half-Ironman on April 2, and then the Razor City Splash and Dash in Gillette on May 7. One packs 2,000 athletes into a town that could pass for a winter escape paradise, the other packs less than 100 athletes into a town that struggles to fight off winter deep into May. One offers a sheltered bay swim, the other offers a pool swim. One cycle leg takes athletes over four righteous climbs through a military installation, the other takes athletes through empty fields dotted with oil derricks and mines. One run leg takes athletes along one of the most beautiful beaches in a state full of them, the other takes athletes along a set of railroad tracks in a glorified trailer park of a neighborhood.

The first one required some begging just get the time off, but I did it, and I'll spare another rant about my desire to take my time off when I damned well please. I flew into San Diego, which always thrills me, what with the approach amongst the buildings downtown. I stayed in Oceanside, California, with my friends Jacob and Tracy and their cat, Nixey. I owe them an incredible debt of gratitude for putting up with me and my bizarre habits for three days, and I repaid them with a pot of my mediocre spaghetti. I really need to learn to cook something else for when I'm crashing at someone's pad.

Anyway, I got all the sleep and transportation I needed before the race, and I was well-rested on race morning, if not well-trained. After my week in Tucson the shit hit the fan at work and I felt like I needed to go in every morning rather than train, and then I managed to short my training at night and on the weekends, meaning I never did more than I felt like because I had to hit trainer and treadmill for my fixes. Shit's gotta change, no doubt.

So the swim does indeed take place in Oceanside Harbor. Surprisingly, the water was fairly clean, minimal boat fuels, maximal salt content. My wave went last of 23, so I also got to swim through everyone else's pee — always a joy, when you expect the water to be quite a bit cooler, and you know why it's warmer. I hammered through about a half-mile of the 1.2-mile swim when my goggles snapped. The nosepiece, really just a piece of rubber strap connecting the two lenses, broke, and as I bobbed in the chop of the exposed part of the course, there was no MacGuyvering a repair. I tossed the goggles to a lifeguard, and after chuckling at the assurance that I had "plenty of time to finish, dude," I went on my way, sidestroking and breaststroking. Then I figured out that I could see much in the water when I had the goggles, so I closed my eyes, put my head down, and went back to swimming freestyle, opening my eyes to sight every now and then. Came out of the water in 34:40, not my fastest but not my slowest, either. I heard one of the volunteers comment that I was hardcore for going without goggles. Thanks to the salt, I must have looked like a pothead.

The bike starts with a brisk criterium-style loop around the harbor before getting on to Camp Pendleton, a Marine Corps installation. I pounded the flats going north parallel to I-5, not realizing a tailwind was pushing me along. That meant that when we turned toward the mountains in the base the tailwind became a crosswind, and then for much of the second half of the race, we had a headwind. That meant that for the four climbs, we were uphill into the wind, which took way more out of me than I would have liked. We were rewarded with some screaming descents, but naturally my head was out of it for all the climbing we did. I did the ride in 3 hours and something, glacial by my standards, so I was looking forward to a stellar run.

For about five miles, I had it right. Per the results I did the first 3.75-mile leg at 8:23 per mile, which felt quick but manageable. I stayed on top of my hydration on the bike, enough that I visited the loo twice out on the road, and once in transition. So I thought I could keep that early run pace indefinitely — run 8:23 per mile until I couldn't anymore. That shit came to a halt at mile 5, where I felt like crashing on the beach and taking a nap on someone's towel. I walked significant portions of the next five miles before starting the cola and pretzels at every aid station. Rocket fuel. I started running again at 10, and finished up that way, but not before clocking a 2:05 half-marathon — again, wars are fought and won in that time. Hey, at least the 5:54 overall time allowed me to maximize my time in the California sun and get a nice pink layer on the pasty whiteness of my body.

Four weeks later I was in Gillette, blowing off UW's commencement to defend an age-group title. The drive up alternates scenic (Sybille Canyon between Laramie and Wheatland) and yucky (WY-59 from Douglas to Gillette), but doesn't take long if you feel like testing the state patrol on commencement weekend, which I never do.

I saw many of the same people I saw the year before, and had that feeling of security and familiarity in a place I'd been only a couple of times. Doesn't take much when you've bounced around as much as I have. This time I split the lane with a couple of younger dudes, and we determined our order. The gun went off, we plowed through the water, and we all stayed on the same lap, amazingly. Now, when circle-swimming, etiquette dictates that one swimmer wishing to pass another tap the foot of the swimmer in front of them. I did that, and no dice. Meanwhile, the guy behind me at one point pulled out into the middle of the lane and passed me on a turn. So I learned that lap swimming etiquette apparently doesn't apply in a race situation; good to know.

I got out into the transition area in roughly seventh place. Per usual, I was glacial in transition and got passed before heading out on the bike. I enjoyed a strong south wind blowing me northward for much of the first half of the bike. Then I hit the turnaround and came to a virtual halt. By then I was in fifth, and trying to hold on to the guys in third and fourth. Another lesson became clear during the second half of the bike — if the race is not USA Triathlon sanctioned, drafting is legal. Indeed, I was in third briefly as I pulled these two guys over a couple of brief hills. Then they made a move and worked a two-man paceline for the rest of the bike while I dealt with the wind on my own.

Much like a non-USAT race I did a couple years back where I pulled a competitor through much of the bike before yielding a spot on the run on tired legs, I had no jump and couldn't bridge the gap on the run. I stayed in fifth place, but I ran a 21:48 5K (7:01 per mile). I take solace in that after fighting the wind in the countryside north of Gillette. Oddly, in terms of placing, last year I was fifth overall, fourth man (yes, I got chicked), first in my age group. This year, I was 3:30 faster, finished fifth overall, fifth man, and third in my age group. Yep, the two guys working the paceline were both 35. That's how it goes sometimes.

While there never was any rule about drafting in the prerace literature, the debate here is the letter of the law (such as it is) against the spirit of the law (in triathlon, there. is. no. drafting.). Far as I'm concerned, I raced honestly and took my medal home with a certain amount of pride in that. What could I have done, anyway, other than telling them to get the fuck off my wheel? Or hooked them (used my book to nudge them off the road)? Guess I can be content to sleep well with my principles.

Tomorrow is the 30-somethingth Bolder Boulder, a race I swore I'd always do as long as I was in this part of the country. For some reason, running a 10K in Boulder with 50,000 other people has lost its appeal, and I won't go back until I have the wheels to pull off a PR. Seriously, if I start in one of the first couple of waves, I only have a couple hundred people in front of me to shove out of the way — er, I mean, slalom through on my way from Pearl and 28th to Folsom Field. So maybe next year if I'm not ass-deep in Ironman training.